Continuity (Riposte Remix)
by abracadera
Summary: A conversation with Bishop on the walls of the keep, pre-end battle. Filling in the blanks of the Bishop/KC relationship. Contains spoilers, innuendo, verbal sparring and possible smooches.


**Author's Note: This is a rewrite of a story I wrote literally years ago, back when NWN2 was young. This was intended to be the first chapter of a larger (smuttier) fic, but I think it stands better on its own. If you read the original story (all 2 of you), drop me a PM.**

_**Continuity (Riposte Remix)**_

Her body hurt, her bones aching with the weariness that came from too much battle. For a wonder she hadn't been wounded too badly in their latest melee, just a few bites and scratches that the gith had mended with her magic. The exhaustion was nothing a little rest wouldn't take care of. She hoped. She was finding this hero business tiring enough. Her eyes felt sandy with fatigue, or maybe that was just from the bone dust of shattered skeletons. Khelgar had bludgeoned a good deal of them to death after all. Or he'd put them to rest, anyway, since they were already dead. Undead. Whatever. She was so tired just thinking about that was giving her a headache.

Kana was still talking about the bridges. _They're gone_, she wanted to say. _Blown up, even. It's done. Can I go now?_ But a response like that would surely make them talk even more, and right now she just couldn't take it.

Now Daeghun was speaking. She felt her eyes narrow at the sound of his voice, almost in reflex. His presence didn't comfort her, even his fortunate arrival on the hills of the battle hadn't touched her heart. He never had. She squinted more, trying once again to stir up some emotion for this distant 'father.' If there was any to be found, she couldn't find it right then, for good or for ill. She just wanted them both to be quiet. Destroying the bridges had either worked or it hadn't. They wouldn't know for certain until tomorrow.

"...and undead flesh can still be pierced."

That was Kana, wrapping up, and it seemed she needed a response to nudge her a little further in that particular direction. A response from her captain.

"I hope you're right," she said. She did. She also wanted to go to bed.

"But come, you must all be hungry..."

That seemed to work. They were dispersing. She closed her eyes and sighed, thankful that the talking had finally stopped. She felt Khelgar move past her on his way into the keep proper. Or at least she thought it was him, judging by the feel of a mail gauntlet patting her elbow companionably on the way by. He couldn't quite reach her shoulder. He'd done quite a job on those overgrown skeletons with that hammer of his, knocking them apart while she and Bishop had played keep away with the ghasts and picked them off with fire arrows.

Bishop.

"Well, 'Knight-Captain,' do you think you could spare a moment for one of your most loyal servants? Or would you and dear old dad like to have a little chat, catch up on old times?"

So much sarcasm, delivered in a voice that always reminded her of silk and leather. Bishop had a dangerous voice even when he wasn't saying things just to get her back up, though he had quite a knack for that. Immediately picking up on her feelings for Daeghun was only part of it; he knew just where to look for weakness. Then again, she knew he was always watching her. Always. Who knew what else he had seen?

She opened her eyes slowly, taking in the sight of him without a change in expression. Tall, dark and handsome, that was Bishop, never mind the fact that he had a personality like the ring she taken from the hand of a dead assassin: a circle of daggers all pointing outwards like a halo of thorns. His lips twisted slightly into a smirk as her gaze met his, the closest to a smile he ever seemed to get. For a moment it reminded her of when he'd come to the Temple of Tyr, offering to fight Lorne for her. He'd caught her off guard then too.

"Something on your mind, Bishop?"

For an instant he looked almost puzzled. Thrown off. That wasn't the response he had been expecting. She knew he was more used to getting the sharp edge of her tongue when he said things like that. In fact, he enjoyed it, she knew he did. That was why she did it. But he was trying to knock her off balance, trying and succeeding, so she had to return the favor. That was how it worked between them. Besides, she was just too tired to give him the satisfaction right then. Or maybe she couldn't be bothered even pretending to defend a man she barely knew.

Bishop's expression smoothed over as if the puzzlement hadn't been there as he answered.

"Something _is_ on my mind. And I'd rather talk about it some place we won't be interrupted by one of your 'men'. On the walls of the keep, maybe, so we can keep an eye on your lackeys, but they won't be able to bother us."

She stared at him, nonplussed, willing both her mind and body to shake off the need for a rest. This was new, and intriguing, though it wasn't as if they'd never spoken before. She'd talked to Bishop more than she had to anyone, even without the barbed comments and insinuations thrown in for good measure. And the times she had struck up a conversation with him simply to listen to the sound of his voice, though she liked to think he hadn't realized that yet. It would be too good for his ego.

They were close enough in age, their training was similar, and they had both grown up in backwater dirt-farms; they had things to talk about, it was that simple. He had initially impressed her with his ability to track through anything, reminding her in an odd way of the lessons she had learned from Daeghun almost despite the man himself. Bishop's 'mentor' had been even worse, to hear him tell. She could track well enough, but conceded that two sets of eyes were better than one. He had proved himself to be more than capable; in Luskan territory, invaluable.

Bishop's skills made up for the mouth he had on him. She didn't mind his attitude once he had proven himself, and whatever lip he gave her she gave it right back. It was fun. Her companions didn't necessarily share this view but she didn't care; if they couldn't handle him that was their problem. She enjoyed watching him, especially in the wilds. He seemed surer of himself as he stalked through the woods and swamps and mountains, stopping every now and again to scent the air, tracking their prey. She felt a pull towards him at those times, like calling to like, but made a point of keeping her distance, as wary as any animal. She didn't know where he'd been.

Their skills dove-tailed in some areas, as she was comfortable both in the wilderness and in the city, parlaying her nimble fingers and an acquired taste for backstabbing into a position with the Shadow Thieves. She wasn't the archer Bishop was, though she could hold her own with a bow; she preferred to be up close and personal when she had to end someone, and her ability to stay hidden and unseen in the shadows gave her an advantage with her blades. She knew she had impressed him with her sharp eyes and her ruthlessness, among other things; she didn't harbor the delusion that his gaze was always on her just because she could tail a mark, pick a lock, bust a trap and slit a throat without blinking an eye. That was part of it, but not all.

Bishop usually had advice, though in talking to him she often felt as if she were listening to the dark side of her conscience, to the little imp that sat on her left shoulder, the one with the pitchfork. _Everyone has one, _she thought, repressing a private smile. _Mine just looks like Bishop. Things could be worse_. His view of the world was bleak, it was true; kill or be killed. But that was the only world she'd known since she had first set out on this path. All of it, the trial, the keep, the sword, this war, it was all just survival. That was how she saw it. Someone wanted her dead so she had to kill them first.

Only problem was, Bishop usually spoke his mind as though the rest of their merry band didn't have ears.

While she was staring at him he was staring back, the smirk still there, his eyes seeming to hold a challenge. She was too intrigued to tell him no.

"Lead the way."

It was chilly up on the walls, and surprisingly bright. The moon was full, huge and bloated-looking against the darkening sky. She peered at it to give her something to do besides look at Bishop. He seemed to be pretending she wasn't there. He stood half-leaning against the wall, his arms crossed casually across his chest, his eyes somewhere else for a change. She found it strange seeing him without his bow in his hands, or an axe in each fist. In fact it was more than a little unnerving. Her own pair of short swords rested in sheathes on her hips, the larger silver sword in a scabbard across her back, all within easy reach if that's what it came down to. She was starting to wonder what she was doing up here alone with him. They were never alone. Together, that is.

The wind kicked up abruptly and she squinted against it, feeling more than hearing her helmet do its best impression of a wind chime as a gale blew through it. _My helmet_. That was why it was so bright. She shook off her distraction and reached up to take her helmet off for what felt like the first time in weeks. The bluish light around them dimmed immediately, like a candle being blown out, only moonlight taking its place. As she set the helmet down she realized Bishop had stopped doing his best to ignore her. He was, in fact, smirking at her again.

"I thought you wore that thing to bed."

Why should that have sounded so insinuating? Because there was no doubt that it was meant to be. She couldn't explain it, not even to herself; it was something he did with his voice.

Instead she looked back at him, one of her eyebrows raised as disdainfully as humanly possible.

"For all you know, Bishop, I do."

The smirk deepened and she watched his expression change subtly, his long, dark eyelashes dipping and then rising again, seemingly in appreciation. Whenever he did that it reminded her of a duelist acknowledging a hit.

"There now, feeling better?" His voice was brimming with false solicitude. "The way you looked in the courtyard, I thought maybe you'd caught some nasty disease off of those ghasts. And we couldn't have that."

She narrowed her eyes at him and rubbed her palm against her hair, trying to coax it out of helmet shape.

"I'm touched by your concern."

For some reason his words made her recall the careful, concerned way he had looked her up and down when she'd returned to the Keep after being ambushed at Castle Never. By vampires, of all things. That had been a long night. He'd played it off, of course, just as carefully. If she hadn't been looking right at him, she would've missed it. Actual concern, instead of whatever this was.

"Now, now, don't fuss with yourself on my account." More sarcasm, delivered in a way that made her think of the brush of a leather-clad thumb against her lower lip. "After all, you've looked worse."

She felt her right eyebrow wanting to spring towards her hairline again and instead ran her fingers along the arch of it as if setting it into place. Then the curiosity got the better of her.

"When? After Lorne?"

Lorne had almost killed her. Well, to be truthful, she had been near death more times than she could count, but the beating Lorne had given her still stood out in her mind as being particularly brutal. There were times she could still see the blood splattered on the arena grounds when she closed her eyes. A lot of it had been hers, but more of it had been his. That was the only reason she was still alive and Lorne was feeding the worms.

"Lorne." He sounded thoughtful. "True. A better example would be when you were fresh off the boat to Neverwinter. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, stinking of the marsh. You looked like a swamp fox that'd chewed off her own paw to cheat a snare."

She felt her lips form a smile against her will. That was quite an image, and one she didn't doubt was accurate, but she'd been trained to look for weaknesses too, after all. Openings: an exposed flank, a chink in the armor; a turn of phrase.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Bishop. But I have _never_ been bushy-tailed." She gave him a look, though her smile still lingered. "Not that you would know."

That got a laugh out of him, short and clipped. The sound of it made her smile more.

"With a tongue as sharp as yours, I don't know why you even need that sword."

He gestured towards the gith blade, the sweep of his arm making her realize that he'd somehow moved closer to her. For all his innuendo, he'd always kept a set distance from her, only touching her with his eyes and his words. She'd been close to him in battle, of course. She'd crept silently beside him through caves and marshes and hallways, on point, scouting the way; had felt the wind against her cheek from the passage of arrows riddling into their enemies as he watched her back; she'd fought with him shoulder to shoulder, knee deep in blood. But that was different, and nothing she hadn't done with Khelgar, or Neeshka, or even that crazy pyro Qara.

As he drew closer to her she could clearly see the scar on his chin that displaced his perpetual shadow of facial hair in a jagged line, stark in the moonlight. She could also see amusement in his eyes, even as his voice turned more mocking.

"I don't know what that 'paladin' sees in you."

"That makes two of us."

She shifted her weight carefully, putting a little more space between them, judging him to be too close by the unsettling way her skin was prickling. The feeling was similar to how she just _knew_ when a trap was nearly underfoot, all senses springing taut at once. That feeling had kept her alive, so she trusted it. She also knew that if he moved any closer to her, she was going to touch him; she wouldn't be able to help herself.

"I saw you talking to him. He looked a little more lively than usual, thought you might've lit a fire underneath him on that stick he's got jammed up his behind. Trying to _convert_ you again, was he?" The question wasn't a casual one, layers of meaning buried beneath his velvety tone.

She put her hands on her hips right above the hilts of both of her weapons and smiled a slow, knowing smile at him.

"No. He told me he wanted to protect me."

His expression darkened, his tone turning scornful.

"What a surprise. If he'd wanted to save a damsel in distress he should have been watching the farm girl instead. Maybe she'd still be alive, or maybe there'd be one less paladin in the world. And wouldn't that be a shame. _You_ can protect yourself."

He said the last with such certainty she blinked once in surprise before replying.

"Agreed. I don't know who he thinks I am. It's like he's never even met me before."

"I don't know about that. If he'd never met you his skull would probably be decorating some orc's excuse for a throne. But now, since he _has_ made the pleasure of your acquaintance, he's perfectly willing to follow you straight into the abyss, wagging his little tail behind him." Bishop's voice was filled with both contempt and bitterness. "How you inspire such blind loyalty, I'll never understand."

She returned his bitterness with sarcasm: "What can I say? It's a gift." She didn't understand it either.

"What do you need him for?"

It was as if he hadn't heard her. His voice had turned sharper, more clipped; angry. Any mention of Casavir brought that emotion out in him: anger or jealousy, usually both. She knew that Bishop hated a lot of people, her 'Uncle' Duncan and the entire population of Luskan to name just a few, but the paladin alone had a more than noticeable effect on him. Casavir made Bishop seethe.

"Who said I needed him?"

"He's still alive. You must need him for something."

"Besides blind loyalty and a human shield?"

He snorted at that, seemingly despite himself, so she continued.

"There's a lot more undead coming. The gith can turn them but there's only one of her. And we're down a healer, now."

"Ah, the druidess." The anger in his voice was gone, replaced by more smooth mockery. "I'd almost _forgotten_ about your naïve little friend. Such a pity. I wanted to ask you, did you enjoy it? Killing her?"

"I don't need to ask if you did."

The confrontation with Elanee and the Circle of the Mere had been far from pleasant, but Bishop had watched her back through it all. In fact, he, Qara and Neeshka had been more than just supportive in that particular endeavor; they had been enthusiastic.

"No, you don't. And that didn't answer my question. Did you?"

He was watching her so carefully, his gaze nearly predatory. She looked into his eyes that were on the same level as her own, matching stare for stare. His irises were a strange color, a brown so light it was almost golden, but somehow still managed to seem cold. Paired with the intensity of his gaze, they reminded her of the eyes of a wolf.

Looking into those eyes, it was too hard to explain that killing Elanee had brought her closer to darkness than she'd ever been before, how as she watched the elf's life bleed out from under her blades she had felt a shadow fall through her soul. And there was no coming back from it.

"A little," she said quietly. She had. There was no reason to deny it. Elanee had dug her own grave with her incessant whining and criticism, her defection had only ensured that the druid would be the one lying in it when all was said and done.

Recalling the elf's death shifted another memory to the forefront of her mind: approaching the 'Cloaks in the fields of the occupied keep and finding a corpse lying on the tilled earth, a farmer; Shandra's expression as she looked at Bishop and then back at her, shaking her head in disgust: _You two deserve each other_.

"Well, now. I didn't think you'd admit to it." Bishop sounded thoughtful again, his stare unwavering. Then he leered at her, his sarcasm returning. "Maybe you aren't perfect after all."

He broke her gaze to glance down along her body, surprising her. When he raised his eyes back to hers the smirk was back on his face, apparently enjoying her expression.

"Are you going to try to stab _me_ now, 'Captain'?"

She realized both sword hilts had found their way into her hands, her gloved fists tight around them, though the blades hadn't left their sheathes. Yet. She returned his look steadily and then smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Only if you make me."

His eyelashes dipped, rose. Point, Captain.

"Good answer." He sounded as if he meant it.

He kept staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face, though with an air that suggested he intended to stand there and stare at her for the rest of the night. She felt the prickling of unease touch her skin again, mixing with the heat that had traveled down her body in the path of his gaze.

She shook her head at him with deliberate slowness, even as she did realizing that his eyes followed the movement, his attention fixed on her mouth.

"Why are we up here, Bishop? What do you want?"

"You."

Just one word, but she felt it pierce her low in her belly, lodged there like an arrow shot from a marksman's bow, spreading warmth instead of coldness and death. It took her breath away.

She somehow managed a smile and held it enigmatically until she remembered how to breathe again.

"Is that an offer?"

"I don't know, if it _was_ an offer, what would you say?" The delivery was identical to when he'd said those words to her before, cagey and smooth, like silk and leather brushing up against her bare skin.

She fought the sudden urge to bite her lip, mindful of where his gaze was.

"I'd say you better keep talking."

That seemed to faze him a little, and his eyes rose to meet hers once more. His gaze wasn't just predatory now; it was hungry. He had moved nearer to her, drawn, close enough so she could catch his scent, the musk of his skin under layers of blood and leather, death and undeath. When he spoke she could feel the whisper of his breath on her lips.

"Keep talking? Look, I'm not going to stand here like some half-wit and say poetic things about the moon. Neither of us has that kind of time." The seriousness of his tone, stripped of its usual mockery, struck her.

"You see, one day you're going to come up against something bigger than you are, and bad things will happen. It's just the way the world works. You're _always_ someone's prey." His stare was so intense it hurt to look at him, but she couldn't look away. "And it might be tomorrow, or the tomorrow after that. All we have is now, _right_ now, and to the hells with tomorrow."

Her eyes felt too wide in her face, transfixed on his. He'd slipped past her guard, the words piercing her more than if he had shoved a dagger between her ribs.

She rubbed her lips together, watched his gaze follow the motion, then whispered: "Come with me."

He didn't move, though something in his eyes did. His lip curled again, and then the ridicule was back.

"Right now, 'Captain?' Why not right here, right now? I'm sure we could put on quite a show for this army of yours."

She held his look, very aware of how close he was. He still hadn't touched her yet, only with words and a gaze that was smoldering. He was waiting for something. He was waiting for her.

She licked her lips, her eyes not leaving him as she did it, and then answered him.

"Because I don't want my 'men' thinking you're first in line for the army-wide morale boost."

His eyelashes dipped and rose, so close to her face she could almost feel the brush of them, and he smiled.

"You mean I'm not? Maybe th—"

She put her mouth on his to shut him up.

The first touch of his lips against hers traveled the length of her spine in a line of fire, her back slowly arching with the sensation. She hadn't known it would feel like this, like something igniting beneath her skin, and her hands clenched hard against the leather that covered his chest as the flames licked down along her body, burning both hot and cold. His lips tasted bitter, and like him.

She felt him exhale slowly against her mouth, a deep sigh of warm breath, as if he'd been holding it. Then she felt his leash break. There was no other way to describe it; whatever had been holding him back was now broken and lying on the ground five miles behind him. He lunged at her, his mouth coming against her hard and fierce, his body pressing against the length of hers, abruptly forcing her backwards.

She kissed him back harder, pushing back against him as if there was any conceivable way their bodies could be any closer right at that moment and trying to grab some part of him that wasn't covered in leather and thorns. She found his head and grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, holding on, overwhelmed by the feel of his mouth against hers. He was kissing her the way she wanted to be kissed: fiercely, frantically, desperately, as if her mouth was the only thing keeping him alive. The pleasure of it was making her knees weak.

He shoved her backwards again, more forcefully this time, his body following hers implacably until her back slammed against the stone wall of the keep. She heard the sound of boot leather meeting something hollow and metal as he kicked whatever it was away from him, felt the hilt of the blade on her back scrape against stone as he crushed his chest against hers, pinning her, his mouth still on hers, relentless. Gloved hands seized her face, thumbs pressing against her jaw line on either side of her mouth, forcing her head back, her lips falling open against the onslaught of his lips and tongue. And teeth. _Oh gods._ She gasped into his mouth and gave his hair a tremendous yank as her body arced up against his, her head falling back against the wall.

He made a noise that sounded like a snarl against her lips and fought himself free of her hands, grabbing her by the wrists and forcing them up on either side of her head, his focus never deviating from her mouth. She struggled against his grip, not because she wanted him to stop but because she wanted to touch him, her hips swaying towards him until her entire body was pressed up against him, her back bent like a bow.

The contact seemed to drive Bishop insane. He crushed her against the wall so completely she thought he'd push her through it, his mouth and body moving against her so fiercely that she felt the majority of her conscious thought growing dim and far away. For a long while there was nothing except him: the bitter taste of his mouth, the feral scent of his skin, the muscles she could feel standing out in his arms and chest as he held her against the wall. It was overwhelming how much she wanted him. Her legs were shaking with it.

Then it wasn't anywhere near enough; there were too many layers of leather between them, buckles and sword belts and scabbards, even the gloves on the hands gripping her wrists were tormenting her. She needed to touch his skin. She needed him.

She pulled her head back the fraction of an inch there was between his mouth and the wall behind her so she could whisper his name.

"_Bishop_."

His eyes snapped open, staring right into hers. If she had found his eyes hungry before, now they held something like a barely controlled frenzy. He closed the distance she had put between them and very purposefully caught her lower lip between his teeth, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction as she gasped, her body shuddering against his in reaction.

His mouth moved away, then back against her lips, hovering there.

"You started it." His voice was rough and sounded darkly amused.

"Wait."

Between one blink and the next the look in his eyes turned deadly, his voice becoming sharper, low and threatening.

"Don't tease me."

He bit off those three words with such menace it was as if he held the keen edge of a blade against her throat. The grip around her wrists grew impossibly tighter. It should have scared her, but she could hear the plea just beneath his words. Some part of him was afraid that he'd tipped his hand too far. She could hear it in his voice.

"No. I'm not. It's..."

She was finding it difficult to complete a thought, let alone a sentence. Her mind was so clouded with her body's desire she was having trouble finding the words that would make him stop looking at her like that.

At that moment, she remembered the girl she had been in West Harbor, a girl whose favorite thing in life was making Bevil Starling blush. That girl was still there, somewhere, and she of all people knew Bishop was just as susceptible to honeyed words as any man, especially one being told exactly what he wanted to hear: the truth.

She smiled at him then, exhaling against his mouth so that he could feel her smile even if he was too close to see it.

"It's just that there are so many things I've wanted to do to you, and we can't do them up here."

She felt his eyelashes brush her cheeks like a pair of wings, and then he smiled back at her.

"Can't argue with that."


End file.
